


Live For Me

by AwesomeMango7



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Character Death, Crying, Gore, Lots of Crying, One-Shot, Regret, S.A.D, Sad, Suicide Attempt, The ending is hopeful but sad, Violent, hella angst, platinonic Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 05:44:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18046622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwesomeMango7/pseuds/AwesomeMango7
Summary: Rick had forgotten what it was like to cry.





	Live For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp. I’m feeling especially angsty today.

 

Rick had thought that, at this point in his life, he had felt all the emotions that he could feel: love, lust, hate, anger, sadness, happiness, etc, etc. There were a lot of emotions, and he’d been convinced he’d felt them all at least once.

And that’s why he didn’t feel anything anymore. He was numb because there was nothing new to feel. Or maybe his numbness was a byproduct of all the years of alcoholism and drugs. 

Whatever the cause, it stopped him from feeling or caring about anything other than his own selfish needs and wants.

But he hadn’t realized he’d been feeling something until it was too late. 

Rick was broken. 

Not that he hadn’t been broken before this; he was a broken man from a broken life. He’d had happy moments in the past, but he’d be lying if he said the good times were always worth the effort he had to put forth during the bad times in his life. 

He’s always been broken, but now he’s worse than he’s ever been before. 

And Rick really hadn’t thought he was able to cry anymore. He hadn’t cried since he was a _kid._ He grew up being taught that crying was a sign of weakness— that it made him look vulnerable and weak, and that if people saw him, he’d get taken advantage of.

So he stopped. 

He didn’t allow himself to cry, even during the most traumatic times of his life. He stood his ground, he blocked out his emotions, and he _did not cry._ Rick Sanchez was far too powerful and great to cry. He was anything but weak. 

But he couldn’t stop the tears now. He was broken. 

He’d never been this broken, and he didn’t know how to control it. He was choking on his own spit as tears cascaded down his face, and his eyes felt heavy, and he couldn’t breathe through his nose because it was so stuffed.

Rick had forgotten what it was like to cry. 

He forgot how sore and heavy your eyes get, he forgot that your nose gets so fucking stuffy, that your breathing becomes erratic, that tears taste like salt, and that broken sobs are unwillingly forced from your throat. 

He even forgot how soul-wrenchingly painful it was to let it all out. He forgot how it felt when your emotions swarmed inside of you like a tornado, releasing themselves through the salty water falling from your eyes. 

His throat felt like it was almost closing in on itself, and he couldn’t _breath_. His chest hurt, and all he could see was a blur of colors, and his thoughts were a chaotic catastrophe, running at the speed of light. 

He was on his knees, sobs wracking through his frail form as he stared at the body sprawled out before him. 

Morty Smith was gone. 

_His_ Morty Smith was gone. 

Morty Smith was _dead_.

The stupid idiot saved his life, and now he was dead. He was _dead_.

His body was completely mangled.

His limbs were bent in odd angles, and his yellow t-shirt was almost completely red from the blood. He had cuts and bruises all over his body, and half of his face was burnt off— completely charred into ash. His one remaining eye was wide open, the pupil blown so wide that Rick could see his own reflection inside of it. His mouth was propped open slightly, and blood had trailed down his chin. He was missing several fingers and one of his feet, and there was a gaping hole in the center his chest.

Morty Smith was dead, and Rick was so broken that he didn’t know what to do anymore. He was broken. Destroyed. Demolished.

He realized in that moment that Morty had been the only thing that kept him going anymore. Every day, all he ever looked forward to was spending time with his wonderful grandson. 

He was a horrible grandfather. He always called Morty useless, he always called him stupid, and no matter what, he always took him for granted. He never did what was right for the kid, and he made him absolutely miserable for his own selfish reasons. He never care what Morty felt, only that the kid was with him.

He had no regard for Morty’s mental heath— he pulled him from school, even when Morty fought him, and he never let the poor boy get much sleep. He belittled him, and called him names, and berated him for making small mistakes. He was the cause of all of Morty’s pain and misery and depression, and Rick hadn’t _cared_. 

And he _still_ sacrificed himself for Rick, and what the old man couldn’t figure out was _why_. 

Why would Morty do that for him? _Why?_

He was so horrible. He was so shitty, and abusive, and problematic, but Morty still loved him. Morty was the only one that didn’t leave him. He was the only one that loyally stayed by his side, even after he saw the most horrible and shitty parts of him. 

He hadn’t ever told Morty that he loved him, but he loved him _so fucking much_ that it almost physically hurt him. He loved him more than anything— Morty made him happier than anyone did, and he _still_ love him back even when Rick was the most horrible person in existence.

Rick wished he could have told Morty that he loved him, and that he appreciated his constant loyalty and assistance. He should have told Morty that he was actually smart, and he should have defended him whenever Beth and Jerry called him retarded. He should have let Morty get proper sleep and education, and she should have took him to cooler planets, and shown him the most beautiful corners of the universe. 

He usually blocked out those thoughts, but right now he found himself unable to. They were filling his head like a flash-flood, bringing him down to his lowest, weakest state of mind. 

He hadn’t done any of that for Morty. He only ever hurt him. 

He reached a shaky hand out towards Morty, and he grabbed his cold, clammy hand in his own. It was stiff— rigor mortis had probably set in at this point. He sobbed harder as he squeezed his cold hand, asking himself _why_ over and over again. _Why, Why, Why, Why._

He didn’t understand why Morty did this. He couldn’t _fathom_ why Morty still loved him enough to give up his own life for him after _everything_ he’d done to him.

Rick was fucking _horrible_. 

He reached his other hand inside his coat pocket and pulled out his laser gun. He held it to his head, his hand shaking unsteadily. He’d made up his mind. 

It’s only fair that he joined Morty in the afterlife, right? 

Rick didn’t believe in the afterlife, but at a moment like right now, it was a nice thought. He finally understood why religion existed— it was comforting to believe that death wasn’t the actual end. It was nice to think that you’d go somewhere else where you can just exist in bliss for the rest of eternity. 

But Rick didn’t actually believe in the afterlife. Wherever Morty was right now, even if it was nowhere at all, Rick wanted to be there, too. Because that’s what he deserved. 

He forced his hand to steady, holding the laser gun firmly against his head. He took in a deep breath of air through his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. 

He thought about Morty as he slowly placed his finger over the trigger, and—

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_**Live, Rick. You have to live for me.** _

 

 

 

Rick’s eyes snapped open, and he looked around frantically as he lowered the laser gun. “W-what?” He stammered out, his voice breaking horribly as more tears streamed from his eyes. “W-who’s there?!” 

No response came to him. He was still alone— there’s no way anyone else could be here with him. He looked down at Morty, his form blurred through his tears. 

He released his hand and frantically wiped at his eyes to clear away the tears, but they were quickly replaced by more. 

Morty was still dead. When he reached forward to grab his hand again, he was still cold. His eyes were still sightless and glossed over. His chest still had a hole in it, and he wasn’t breathing and his heart wasn’t beating. 

Rick sobbed over him for a while longer, the words he’d heard playing over and over again in his head. What had he been thinking? Morty had sacrificed himself for him. Had he really been about to make his death meaningless?

Rick was alive because of him. He was alive and breathing, even though he didn’t deserve it. But if he died, Morty’s death would be meaningless. 

He couldn’t let Morty’s death be meaningless. He’d make sure that Morty’s sacrifice meant something— that he didn’t die for nothing.

Rick would make himself _worthy_ of Morty’s sacrifice. 

“I-I promise I’ll live for you, Morty.” Rick whispered in a shaky voice, reaching a hand out towards Morty’s face and carefully closing his one remaining eye. “I promise your death wont be m-meaningless.”

 

And Rick lived for Morty. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, the end. Like I said, I’ve been feeling especially angsty today. I also wrote this in like less than an hour, so it’s not as good as my usual work.


End file.
